The Jinxed Pirate (Graylands Book 2)

by M. Walsh

She wanted to ask, Who are you? But the only word that came out was, “Why?”

  The Enforcer tilted his head in seeming curiosity. He then removed his mask, and suddenly Katrina Lamont was staring at herself.

  * * *

  It wasn’t the first time she’d had this nightmare. She bolted upright, cold with sweat. It was dark, wherever she was, and in the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow in the shape of a person. For a second, she thought it was the Enforcer and instinctively grasped for her sword that wasn’t there.

  “I was certainly not prepared for today,” the shape said.

  Her head pounding and stomach tumbling, she regained her bearings and took in where she was: the floor of a small, darkened cell. There was a cot, but she had either missed it or fell off sometime during the night. The cell door was open, allowing some hint of morning light inside the dingy brown room, but that was blocked by the woman standing in the doorway.

  “Wha..?” Katrina croaked, her throat dry and aching. “What happened..? Where am I..?”

  “I sometimes imagined what it would be like seeing you again, Princess,” said the woman. “I wondered what the circumstances would be and how I would respond to meeting you.” She paused and shook her head, and though Katrina couldn’t see her face in the dark with her blurred vision, she could tell she was disappointed. “I definitely didn’t expect this.”

  “I don’t—” She rubbed her eyes and cleared her throat. “What happened? What is this?”

  The woman sighed, extending her hand. “Come along, Princess. I suppose we have things that need discussing.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Gareth,” she said. “Nora Gareth. I served you against Armand Tyrell.”

  Katrina froze and looked at the woman standing before her. Gareth was short and stout with a round stomach and silver hair. She tried to say something, but only stared into the old woman’s eyes. She didn’t recognize her, but was stunned all the same. After all these years, a fellow Vigorian—alive and before her.

  “I … I …”

  “Come,” she said, her wrinkled face giving away no emotion.

  She accepted her hand and was pulled to her feet, only to almost fall back down to the floor. Gareth helped her regain her balance and led her outside. She was apparently in jail, and as she walked through the building, Lester’s militia greeted her with looks ranging from anger to fear. When she saw the Sheriff holding her sabre, she felt the urge to vomit.

  “I don’t exactly feel comfortable giving this back.”

  “I’ll handle it, Sheriff,” said Gareth. She took the sabre and added, “There won’t be another incident, I assure you.”

  The Sheriff wouldn’t take his eyes off Katrina, and had she not felt so sick and confused, she might have apologized for whatever she did. She flinched upon stepping outside into the bright daylight—feeling as though a thousand needles shot into her brain through her eyes.

  She was led around the corner where Hyde was tied to a hitching post and looking no happier to see her. When they stopped, Gareth glared at her with a look that reminded her of being scolded by a teacher.

  “You,” said Katrina, tugging at her hair. “You served with me against Tyrell? I’m sorry, I … I’m trying to remember.”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Gareth said. “I was a medic. We never spoke directly.”

  “Oh.”

  She held up the sabre and frowned. “I recognize this metal,” she said. “It’s from the Dark Lands. I’m not sure I want to know how you got it.”

  Katrina took the sword and sat on the hitching post. “What happened last night?”

  “You were drunk,” she said.

  “I guessed that.”

  “You got so drunk you attacked a man in the saloon. I don’t know what started it, but apparently half the militia had to be called in to calm you down.”

  A chill went through her blood, as if someone walked over her grave. “I didn’t kill anyone, did I?”

  “Thankfully, no,” Gareth said, sighing. “Fortunately for them—and you—I happened to be closing my shop when it happened. When I recognized you, I stepped in.”

  “You talked me down?”

  “No. I got your attention, and the militia was able to subdue you.” She paused and scratched behind her ear. “Even that was something of an ordeal. I suppose I should applaud you for remaining a formidable fighter, Princess.”

  Katrina hung her head, embarrassed and disgusted with herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t … this was not what I wanted.”

  “What did you want?” Gareth asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I, uh,” she began, clearing her throat. “A few months ago, a man came to me named Rasul Kader. He told me … well, he wanted to sell me to some sorcerer.” She paused, coughing and wishing her flask wasn’t empty. Gareth was about to speak, but she continued, “It doesn’t matter. The point is Kader told me there were other survivors from Vigor in Graylands.”

  “And this was news to you?” Gareth asked.

  “I thought everyone was dead.”

  “Did you even look?”

  The words stung, as did her tone. “I didn’t—” She hesitated, and a spark of anger formed. “What was I supposed to do?” She paused again, and Gareth didn’t react. “I did everything I was supposed to do! How could I have known? How was I supposed to know there were other survivors?!”

  The old woman only stared and said nothing. Katrina’s headache throbbed as the spark turned to something more.

  “How can you stand there and judge me? You think I wanted this to happen? You think I wanted everyone to die?! I didn’t make that damn prophecy! I never asked to … to …”

  Gareth still didn’t react. Her face was unimpressed, as if she expected no more from her. “Thank you, Princess. I’m glad you came all this way to berate me. Now, with that out of the way, I have important things to do.”

  She tapped her forehead and walked away.

  All at once, Katrina felt as though a lump had formed in her throat. Her vision lost its focus, and with that, came a feeling she was about to fall into some deep pit. “Wait!” she called out, barely hearing her own voice. “D-don’t … I didn’t … please …”

  She trailed off, feeling like she couldn’t breathe. Her sabre dropped to the ground, and she stumbled. The world started to spin all around her, and she felt as though her head would split in two or her body would crumble to pieces. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her stomach was tumbling.

  Gareth stopped, and her expression shifted to concern. “Princess..?” she said. “Are you all..?”

  Katrina’s breathing was erratic. Without realizing it, she was pulling at her own hair and muttering, “Please … please … I can’t … I don’t … please …”

  “Katrina!” Gareth snapped. “Breathe!”

  She didn’t hear her. She sank to her knees, and as if a dam had been broken, she burst into uncontrollable sobbing. Her hands were pressed against her face, and she cried and trembled.

  Between her breathless bawling, she managed to choke out, “… please … help me …”

  * * *

  Krutch awoke to a throbbing head and the smell of dust. He was lying on a cot with a thin sheet covering him. The air was stifling and hot, and his mouth felt dry. He sneezed upon awakening, which made his head hurt even more.

  Peeling his eyes open, he found he was in a small, dim room lit only by a single, tiny rectangle of a window where a beam of morning light shined through. The walls were bare except for a hanging oval object that had a spiraling loop engraved on it. The only way in or out of the room was an opening in the floor that revealed a wooden ladder.

  With an effort, he sat upright, only to find he didn’t have his pants or jacket. He let out a surprised bark at this realization and looked around for his clothes, but the room was indeed empty.

  That was troubling enough, but if his jacket was missing, his gun was gone as well. He might not have had
ammunition for it, but he still didn’t like the idea of his weapon being taken from him.

  “Where the hell am I?” Glancing down the opening in the floor, he muttered to himself, “Am I seriously expected to start wandering around in my underwear?”

  Rubbing his sore head—noting that it was bandaged—he tried to remember where he was and how he got here. He was fleeing the angry Sentry woman and then nothing. Scouring his addled memory, he recalled stumbling around at night, soaking wet—Was that the river, or was it raining?—and seeing a light in the distance.

  Being as he wasn’t in jail or confined to his small room, and his wound had been mended, he took it to reason he was not among enemies. He took comfort in that, but he still didn’t know where he was. He pondered whether to go downstairs and seek answers—even without his pants—or if he should wait for someone to come to him.

  Krutch spent an inordinate amount of time debating this choice.

  Finally, he decided to go downstairs and find answers. He brought the bed-sheet with him, intent on using it to cover himself in case someone didn’t approve of his walking about in his underwear.

  This backfired as the sheet snagged on the ladder, causing him to lose his balance. He fell onto the wooden floor below with a hard slam—his hip taking the worst of it.

  “GODS DAMN IT!” he screamed.

  He got to his feet, trying not to put pressure on his leg, and only got a splinter for his troubles. Nearly losing his balance again, he planted his other foot down, making a torch of pain radiate from his hip. All of this was accompanied by more cursing and snarling.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” said a deep, monotone voice behind him.

  He turned to find himself facing an imposing man dressed in black with a white vest. He was large with broad shoulders—so large his vest didn’t fit properly. His face was severe—brown skinned and lined with wrinkles, a receding hairline, harsh, squinty eyes, and a tight mouth that looked like he was grinding his teeth.

  Krutch steadied himself, wincing at the pain in his left hip and right foot. Feeling foolish for standing in nothing but his underwear and a shirt, he attempted to bypass any embarrassment by acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

  “Yes,” he said in a clear voice. “Yes, I am.”

  “I am Eren Lucas,” said the older man. “Brother Eren Lucas of the Faith.”

  Krutch hesitated—understanding that meant some kind of religion, but having no idea which one it was. “Very well then,” he replied.

  “You were found outside the grounds,” Brother Lucas said, looking unperturbed. “We took you in and mended you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  The two stared at one another. Krutch, despite his lack of clothes, felt obligated to remain quiet until Lucas said something first. After a long, awkward silence, the Brother asked, “And your name, sir?”

  Knowing it would be unwise to reveal his real name, he improvised: “Dan Dirkwood.”

  The Brother’s eyes narrowed, but his face gave no hint as to what he was thinking. Krutch regretted his pitiful alias, but maintained a steady gambler’s face. The scene reminded him of teachers when he was younger. Particularly the strict ones that might catch you doing something wrong and stare you down until you admitted it.

  It was a psychological tactic that often broke Krutch when he was a child—but having been reminded of it, he determined he would not fall for it again. He was Krutch Leeroy, after all. Infamous outlaw. Notorious pirate. An adult!

  Finally, Lucas said, “I assume you want your trousers, yes?”

  Ha! I win!

  “Of course,” said Krutch. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why indeed.”

  Lucas led him down the hall to a metallic staircase that spiraled into a square structure. Once down the stairs, Krutch saw he was in a chapel of some sort. The Brother told him to wait by the altar while he went outside to retrieve his clothes from the clothesline.

  The chapel was a ramshackle place of wood and stone. The air was hot, dry, and smelled of dust. Hanging over the altar was the same oval shape with engraving in the center that was hanging in his room—apparently the symbol of whatever religion this chapel worshipped, although Krutch didn’t recognize it. There were a few pews lined up by the altar and a handful of wooden chairs and benches placed around them. Only two or three other people were inside—praying, he assumed, though they could’ve been sleeping. After a few minutes, Lucas returned with Krutch’s pants, jacket, and shoes.

  “Thanks,” he said, putting them on. “Say, how far are we from the Spade Sea?”

  “The sea is half a mile east of here,” said Lucas. “The road will lead you to a dock where you can charter a ferry, if that is where you are going.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, Mister … Dirkwood,” Lucas said, although from his monotone voice, he didn’t sound cordial. “If you’ll excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”

  Krutch nodded and finished tying his shoes. He didn’t bother putting his jacket on due to the heat, but noted his gun was not with it and worried he’d lost it in the river. Either that or the Brother was hiding it.

  Questions for later.

  He stepped outside to find the chapel was part of a small mission. The sun shined bright and created a great glow against the dirt, sand, and weeds. Krutch squinted as he looked around, noting two smaller structures to the left and right of the chapel and a bell-tower behind. Everything was surrounded by a dismal stone wall.

  By the look of it, the mission was a crummy, forgotten place, run by Brother Lucas and few others, and more of a way-station for wanderers coming to and from. And judging from the state of the place, these wanderers were takers and little else.

  Lacking anything better to do, Krutch headed for the bell-tower to get a look of the land. As he made his way up the winding stairs, he also thought it would be nice to be someplace alone for a while—feeling oddly exposed standing by himself in the courtyard and considering he’d been with Arkady all winter.

  Shit, he realized. I hope Arkady got out of that tavern okay.

  He reached the top of the tower, out of breath and feeling dampness forming beneath his shirt. The bell was an old, rusted thing that looked like it would shatter if someone rang it. The floorboards creaked, and the stone walls were chipped and rough. But there was a breeze that couldn’t be felt down in the courtyard.

  To the east, Krutch saw the Spade Sea glittering in the sunlight. It spread out as far as he could see and blurred into the haze of the horizon and steel-blue sky. Somewhere on the other side of that sea was the city of Seba.

  It had been Arkady’s idea to head east after the mess with Daredin’s cult. Sentry Elite were crawling all over southwestern Graylands, and he believed Seba would be the best place to lay low until the heat died down. The route from Fane to Seba went through the Coldstone Desert and making that trip would’ve been a disaster even if it hadn’t been winter. So they detoured around Coldstone, and now, finally, Seba was within reach.

  But do I even want to go? Krutch thought with a sigh, clenching his right hand and feeling the stiffness of his burn scars.

  “Planning on a swim?”

  Not expecting anyone to be there with him and startled by the voice, he squeaked in horror and jumped—banging his head against the wall.

  The young woman sat at the opposite end of the bell-tower, wearing simple white and gray clothes. She watched him with an amused look on her face. “Easy there,” she said. “I think you’ve done enough damage to your noggin already.”

  “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his head. “Um, who’s swimming?”

  “I meant the sea,” she said. “You’ve been staring at it.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  She rose to her feet, and Krutch got a better look at her. She appeared to be in her early twenties and eyed him with sparkling jade eyes. She had yellow-colored hair, light skin despite the baking sun, and a heart-s
haped face.

  She leaned against the corner with her arms crossed. “What’s your name?”

  Momentarily forgetting the fake name he gave Lucas, he stammered, “Er, Den—Dan—Dan Deek—uh—Dirkwood.” He cleared his throat. “Dan Dirkwood.”

  The woman snorted. She smiled, but there was a mischievous spark in her eye. “Okay, ‘Dan.’ And I’m Anne Anwater.” She giggled again and asked, “So what brings you to this hole?”

  “Not really sure, honestly. I kind of had an accident, I guess.”

  “I know,” she said. “I was the one that found you last night.”

  “Ah. Well, thanks. I guess.”

  She nodded, and her gaze drifted toward the east where Krutch had been looking. “How long are you staying here?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not long, I guess.”

  “You guess a lot, ‘Dan.’”

  Before he could speak, she smiled and started down the tower.

  “Free piece of advice,” she said. “Don’t stay here longer than you need. And if you’re going to Seba, keep it out of Lucas’s earshot unless you want a sermon about the wickedness that goes on over there.” She disappeared down the stairwell, and just above a whisper, Krutch heard her add, “… or if you’re looking to get out of here.”

  It took a second for that last bit to reach his ears and sink in, but once it did, he thought, Wait—what..?

  * * *

  After the Blind Cliffs, Katrina didn’t care where she ended up—so long as she was drunk when she got there and more alcohol was waiting. She had a vague notion of going north, but no destination or purpose.

  She recalled wallowing in Canton for a month. She might have passed Garland as fall turned to winter. She awoke every morning—more often, afternoon—hung-over and with little memory of the previous night. Wasting no time, she’d go right back into drinking. Black-out nights were becoming more frequent, and on more than one occasion, she’d awake with blood on her sword.

  Sometime over the winter, Katrina was drinking in a tavern west of Devon. It was snowing outside, and the bar was crowded, but few of the patrons bothered her. It was just as well. As it was, she just wanted to drink herself to unconsciousness and hopefully be spared any nightmares about home, the Blind Cliffs, or the Enforcer.